Surprise! This is an exclusive look at one of those interviews on that first day of The Family Julez Tour during Julez and Collette’s press junket. If you haven’t read The Comedown yet—at least up until Chapter Three—it may not make a whole lot of sense, but will definitely give you an unedited peek inside Julian’s head. You can find The Comedown *HERE* on Amazon now, or purchase a signed paperback copy from my *ETSY SHOP* *HERE*.
Thanks for reading. Enjoy!

Julian
After making sure Collette’s settled in so no one can see up the shirt she thinks passes as a dress—it’s a motherfucking shirt—I take the seat next to her. I hate these fucking interviews so bad. Most of the interviewers ask the same questions over and over and over again. Why can’t I answer them once and be good? Why the fuck do I have to repeat myself fifteen times about the dumbest shit possible? Yes, I’m going on tour. Yes, Collette’s coming with me. No, I don’t know how the fuck my label swung that one. No, I don’t know why my albums haven’t earned any awards yet. If these assholes actually did their homework and listened to my music, then they’d know exactly why I don’t have any awards. Shit, I wouldn’t give my music an award. Not even a participation ribbon and everybody gets those these days.
“Nice to see you again, Julez,” I hear the first interviewer say, but I’m too busy looking at Collette still. She’s here. She’s really fucking here. I’ve seen her perform on TV so many times and now Imma get to share a stage with her. I get to perform with The Collette tonight.
How did my label land her?
“Collette, always a pleasure seeing you.”
Now I’m tuning in, and um, excuse me?
“Same, Randall. How’s the family?” Collette asks with a genuine smile and a lean forward like she really wants to hear about Randall—the fuck? I didn’t even know this guy’s name—and his family.
He’s got a family? How does Collette know that?
I look over at our interviewer in time to catch his full-face blush. That shit starts at his collarbone and spreads all the way up to his receding hairline. Goddamn.
I clear my throat to remind him I’m right fucking here. Keep it in your pants, motherfucker.
Collette’s eyes don’t stray from his as she listens to his story about doing swim lessons with his daughter since his pregnant wife is at a phase where she’s too uncomfortable to do it herself anymore. Collette’s smile doesn’t dim, but her lips do this weird dance like she’s forcing herself not to frown, then she shakes her head so slightly anyone else would miss it. I don’t though, because I’m fucking glued to every one of her reactions right now.
Her gaze skirts over to mine before she returns her full attention to Randall, her little lip quiver long gone.
Sitting a little lower in my seat, I scowl at Randall.
Lucky bastard. Collette don’t smile at me like that…yet.
Damn. Imma have to ask permission before I touch her again.
Imma have to get ahold of my fucking nerves first. They’re legit everywhere, have been for days now.
“Well, I don’t have to tell you. You remember what it was like, I’m sure,” Randall says.
I don’t even know what this guy’s talking about anymore. I zoned out when he mentioned his pregnant wife. But Collette doesn’t answer right away, so now I’m wishing I hadn’t. I don’t give a shit what he says, only what she says. And does. And thinks. And smells like.
From having Collette on my shoulder on the way up here, I still can smell her if I tilt my head just right, so I do it now without drawing any attention, inhaling the same flowery scent I smelled on her bus last night. Fine, earlier this morning.
Collette’s chin lifts. “I do. You have to really enjoy every minute with your kids while you can. It goes very quickly.”
“It does.” Randall nods, staring at Collette’s pretty face before glancing over the rest of her in a way that makes me wanna slap the taste out his mouth.
I don’t know, man. I’m pretty fucking sure Randall’s preggo wife wouldn’t appreciate him checking Collette out. I know I sure as hell don’t.
Licking my lips, I drop my head back, looking around like I’m bored. I even kick my foot out, stretching my leg as long as it’ll go until it’s in front of Collette’s chair. One arm over my chairback, I angle myself in her direction, too.
“Right.” Now Randall’s clearing his throat. “Uh, should we get to it?”
I wave a hand at him that says, Get the fuck on with it before I kick your ass, but probably looks like, Yup.
He gestures behind him, then he starts in a much deeper tone with, “So Julez, you’re here in San Diego kicking off The Family Julez Tour tonight, and you’ve got none other than Collette opening for you.”
Collette nods along, giving a soft smile.
“That’s right,” I say in monotone. See, this is the shit I’m talking about. He’s just stating facts, why do I have to be here?
“Your styles are so different from each other’s. With you being a rapper and Collette ruling the pop scene…how did the two of you get together? Did Collette call you?”
Now that gets a laugh out of me.
Collette…call me? The fuck is he smoking? I want some for myself.
“I’m not really sure how it all came together, man.” And that’s the truth. I asked for her as my opener but I never expected to get my wish. I expected to get fired for making such a ridiculous request. Some-fucking-how I didn’t though, and now here we are. A blessing and a curse all at once.
“Were you a fan of Collette’s before?”
Was I a fan of Collette’s? Shit, how far back are we talking? ’Cause I can go way back.
But I’m not about to give myself up like that. Since I’m supposed to name-drop my tour a certain number of times during this shit anyway, I just say, “Collette has a way with audiences that I think will be good for The Family Julez Tour.” So corny.
Collette is the kind of performer that does everything though. She sings, she dances, she interacts with the crowd. She’ll stop to talk and joke with people in between songs sometimes. If there’s a funny sign being held up, she’ll acknowledge the person holding it and ask them about its meaning. She tosses out swag and takes selfies. She’s a pro. Any artist would be lucky to have her on their tour. I know I am.
“Do you think your fans will embrace Collette?”
Embrace her? This dude’s fucking hilarious. No wonder Collette remembers him. Who wouldn’t wanna embrace Collette? She’s fucking gorgeous and she’s got a set of pipes on her that should be earning her award after award even though her record’s as dry as mine for some reason.
“Yeah, I think they’ll embrace her.”
“What about you, Collette? Are you excited to reach a new audience?”
“I am. I’ve always liked challenging myself. This is an ever-changing industry, and you have to be willing to evolve and grow and try new things.”
“Did you develop that mindset touring with your ex-husband, Bodee Keys?”
Nobody moves for a solid minute, so I sit up, propping my elbows on my knees, that way if I need to react, I’m already halfway in position. Even I know Collette’s ex’s name is off-limits during interviews, and I’m the motherfucker who goes out of his way to break rules.
Collette bounces the leg that’s crossed over the other one, tilting her head to the side at Randall like she’s waiting on him, like she’s got all motherfucking day for him to fix his mistake. Like a teacher would do to the bad kid in class who just spoke out of turn.
I know the look because I’ve been on the receiving end of it so many times I lost count.
Randall shuffles the papers in his hold before shooting a look over his shoulder to mumble something about cutting that part out.
“Let’s try again, shall we?” he says all chipper and shit, and Collette says, “Let’s.”
“Uh, tour… You two are about to be on a tour bus for two months, how’s that for you? Do you bring family out? Friends?”
Randall looks from Collette to me, probably praying one of us will actually answer after his fuckup.
“Yeah, I mean, I’ve got a good amount of people with me,” I say. They’re not exactly family and some of them can be considered friends…I guess.
I don’t know who all Collette’s got though. I wish I did. So I look at her, waiting for her to answer, too.
“With The Family Julez Tour taking place during the summer, I’m lucky enough to be able to keep my son with me this time.”
“Is it easier or harder having him on the road with you?”
Collette smiles brighter than the lights aimed at our faces, but answers with, “I love any time I can get with him.”
“How do you balance work and family?”
The smile melts right off her face as a frown settles in its place. The top part of her chest expands before she asks, “Do you ask the fathers you interview the same thing?”
Oh shit. I never thought about that. Does Bodee Keys get asked how he balances work and family? On top of being the biggest country music star that’s ever filled a pair of cowboy boots, he’s also the father of Collette’s son, so he should. Bet he don’t though. Collette’s right. Men don’t get asked that kind of stuff. At least none I’ve ever heard.
On this one TV interview I did, I was shown different pictures of broads’ cleavage and asked if I could remember which ones I’d signed. I failed so bad they gave up and moved on to the next segment of having me judge brand-new rappers’ songs only going off twenty-second clips of each one.
So yeah, those are the kinds of questions men get asked. We’re treated like experts on everything from tits to talent while women have to justify every part of their lives.
Honestly, I’m not really feeling Randall anymore, and no, it’s not because Collette remembered him and smiled at him and talked with him.
Okay, it’s not only because Collette remembered him and smiled at him and talked with him.
It’s his whole vibe. He brought up Collette’s ex, he asked her a sexist question, and he smells like raw onions. I wasn’t gonna say anything but now I think I will. Fuck Randall.
“You—” I start to say but Collette cuts me off, answering instead.
“There is no scale to tell you when things are balanced, and I highly doubt anybody’s life ever truly is. It’s all about figuring out what works for you along with what doesn’t, mostly through trial and error, then trying to make the best out of those results if, and when, you can.”
My eyebrows shoot up. Personally, I don’t know a single fucking thing about balance but Collette seems like she’s got a handle on this shit. She wouldn’t still be touring after seventeen years if she didn’t.
“Speaking of balance, Julez,” Randall says, shifting the focus to me. I don’t lean back still. Instead I stay right where I am, letting him feel my presence push against his. “It was a nice surprise hearing you do a little more singing than rapping on the track you and Collette did together.”
Okay…
What the fuck am I supposed to say to that?
“Thanks,” I decide to mumble since he did say it was a “nice” surprise. Most people have been dragging me for it. It don’t matter what I do; I get criticized regardless. I rap and it’s “All he can do is rap.” I sing and it’s “Oh, he thinks he can sing now?”
“The song is getting a lot of attention right now for how hot it is.” He gives a stupid little smirk that makes him look like the Grinch, except with pink skin instead of green. What’d he do, fuck his wife while listening to it or something? Wouldn’t surprise me. It is a hot-ass song. Even I had a chubby while writing a few of the lines…only because I was picturing Collette.
Finally, I sit back so I can steal longer looks at her without being as noticeable. Was she affected by it at all?
Nah, Collette’s a professional. She wouldn’t get worked up over a song.
Would she?
“How did that collaboration go? What did recording together look like?”
Ugh, he’s asking questions I don’t wanna answer. My label sent the answers for this exact question to me to read over and memorize, but they’re all bullshit. Collette and I did not work together and we did not record together. We collaborated on an explicit song that sounds super personal, but from a distance and in the most impersonal way possible. I fucking hated it.
I fucking hate the thought of talking about it even more because I already know I can’t without admitting something that’ll embarrass the shit out of me. The script my label tries to keep me on never feels right leaving my mouth, and the lies about my experience working with my teenage crush won’t either.
So I don’t bother. I stay quiet and let Collette take the lead on this one. What was our collab like for her?
Collette meets my eyes, then grins pleasantly, like we’re just a couple of old pals who put our heads together to write a song about fucking the shit out of each other without catching any feelings whatsoever.
“It was like any other collaboration,” she says, gutting me on the spot. That’s why I fucking hated “working” with Collette. Because it was like any other collab and I didn’t want it to be. Even this right now is like any other interview I’ve ever done with any other artist.
“What’s your favorite city to play in?” I ask Collette before I can stop myself. Whatever. I’m done playing along anyway, pretending to give a shit about Randall’s basic questions.
Her smile grows just a tiny bit but it’s for me. All for me.
“I don’t know if I have a specific city. I usually love performing anywhere in California though.”
Randall asks, “Because it’s closer to home?”
Thankfully, Collette doesn’t break away to acknowledge him.
Stay with me, Poohbear. Stay with me.
This is what I wanted—Collette’s undivided attention, even if only for a weird-ass hiccup in time that feels like I stole it and am just about to be caught. I know I’ll never get it any other way though.
“Yours?” she asks me, making my cock jolt in my pants, and I swear if I was fully hard right now, I’d come all over my lap. Just a Jackson Pollock painting of cum.
“The ’Burgh,” is all I get out, but she nods like she understands.
If Randall tries asking me the same thing he asked Collette, I don’t notice. I can’t hear any other noise in the room except my own heartbeat filling my ears…and Collette’s next question.
“Do you write your own songs?”
“Yeah.” I’ve written every stupid word I’ve ever recorded. As much as I hate my lyrics, I’d hate singing someone else’s even more though so… “You too?” I ask. I already know the answer but I wanna keep her talking.
“Yes, I write them all. What’s your favorite song to perform on stage?”
Easy. “I haven’t written it yet,” I tell her honestly.
“Is that the title of it or—”
My chuckle cuts her off, then she’s laughing, too.
I like her laugh. I like it so much I wish I could record it. Not to air on TV for ratings either, just for myself. To keep, to listen to when I feel like there’s nothing on this earth worth keeping me here.
“Your favorite song to perform?” I ask while I still have her in this bubble where it feels like it’s just us.
Her eyebrows lower and I feel mine mirror the move.
“Hmm.” After thinking it over, she shakes her head, saying, “I might have to steal your answer. I don’t think I’ve written it yet.”
“Stealing answers is a punishable offense,” I joke with her. When she cocks one of those eyebrows at me in what might not actually be a challenge but totally feels like it could be a challenge, I almost take it back and tell her she can steal anything she wants from me. Bankrupt me, just make sure to keep those silver-blue eyes on me while doing it ’cause damn.
Leaning forward so I can just see the top of her cleavage beneath her shirt, Collette murmurs, “You’d have to catch me first,” then looks me up and down in a way that has every inch of my skin erupting into tight goose bumps. Holy fucking shit.
Yeah, I’m definitely taking it as a challenge.
© A. Marie 2022